


From Russia With Boobs--I Mean Boobs--I Mean Love

by VintagePoison



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Language, Russia, Sexual Content, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VintagePoison/pseuds/VintagePoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I attempt to write a BlackHawk pre-Avengers ficlet and it turns into borderline crack where Clint is a dweeb and there's a random bartender named Sergei.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Russia With Boobs--I Mean Boobs--I Mean Love

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry that this is horrible. Um.... Enjoy?

There is an old story that Peter the Great once rewarded an old man who’d done him a great service by putting a stamp on his neck that allowed him to drink for free in any bar in Russia. The old man would walk into the bar, tap the stamp on his neck, and then drink until he fell over. And that, according to legend, is where the Russian sign language of tapping your neck to indicate you wanted another round originated.

Or you could simply grab the bottle from behind the counter and glare at anyone who tried to take it from you or came too close. The strange, militant redheaded woman rarely spoke aside to snap an order for more vodka or for the check. She came in about once every month. The owner, Sergei, had decided that as long as she didn’t kill anyone and paid her bill she was allowed to stay without questions.

She always took the corner table. Back to the wall, eyes on the door. The local boys had learned to leave her alone or risk broken fingers--sometimes worse, but occasionally someone in a black suit would show up asking for her. Sergei usually found them in the dumpster later; sometimes they were alive, sometimes he just tossed the garbage on top.

No one ever sat down at the table with her. Ever.

So when an American showed up asking for the redhead, Sergei merely pointed to the shadowy corner. And then ducked beneath the counter to brace for the impact.

 

“Natasha Romanov?”

Natasha looked up, eying the silly boy they had sent this time. Her green eyes quickly dissected his odd suit and the quiver strapped to his back. So, this was who SHEILD had sent to kill her. Their famous archer, Hawkeye. She raised an eyebrow in a silent rebuke for asking a question that he knew the answer to.

“I missed you in Paris,” he commented, pulling up the chair to the spot across from her. Hands on the table. A sign of non-aggression. Interesting.

“You missed because I had a hostage and you didn’t want to risk a civilian life,” Natasha commented, lacing her fingers together. “I can only assume that SHEILD wants something or I’d be dodging arrows again already.”

“Actually, I’m here off the books,” the archer said with a slightly crooked grin. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Natasha paused. She had envisioned many, many scenarios the moment she had realized she was being followed. Sincere and somewhat cliched attempts at flirting from the man who had being trying to shoot her 37 hours ago had not been high on that list.

“No,” she said.

“Will you buy me a drink?” he asked, resting an elbow on the table and batting his eyes at her. He was, honest to goodness, fluttering his eyelashes like that was supposed to have some effect on her.

That was a first. Natasha considered him for a moment, trying to decide whether this was a ploy to throw her off guard. “Hawkeye, was it?” she said finally.

“Call me Clint,” he said.

“Agent Hawkeye, out of respect for you as a fellow professional, I’m going to give you this chance to fuck off,” Natasha said levelly.

“Я отвали, только если вы ебать меня.”

Natasha’s lips curved. Oh, he had no clue what he was getting into with that request.

 

Okay, in retrospect, maybe this had been a bit of a bad idea. Clint dove behind the sofa, the cushions swallowing the bullets with a series of soft “fwump”s. On the plus side, she hadn’t hit him; which meant that she probably wasn’t trying too hard. And that meant that she liked him.

Clint grinned to himself. “You about out of bullets yet?” he called, reaching into his quiver for another arrow. They had agreed to relocate their flirting/death-match to a largely empty hotel. For obvious reasons.

Although his obvious reasons were probably different than hers, all things considered. It was time to switch to plan C.

“Are you out of arrows?” she asked with a derisive snort, coming into the hotel room and looking around the suite. She jumped onto the coffee table, firing a shot behind the couch where Clint had been moments before.

“Nope,” Clint muttered and dropped down from the ceiling on top of her. They tumbled onto the floor, a tangle of limbs as they both tried to disarm and overcome the other. Weapons were knocked out of hand as they disarmed each other in the frenzied struggle. Then there was a faint click, a scream of rage, and then Clint was kicked to the other side of the room.

“You fucking bastard!” yelled Romanoff, trying to tug her wrist free of the cuff attached to the radiator.

Clint groaned, getting to his feet. “Owwwww,” he complained, massaging his chest where she’d kicked him. He was going to have a doozy of a bruise. “You tried to stab me with a poisoned hair pin!”

The redhead glared at him. All things considered, this probably was a standard first date for her.

Clint winced, walking over.  sitting down just outside her reach. “I just want to talk.”

This prompted a laugh. It probably was pretty hilarious, Clint reflected. He wouldn’t have believed it either. Natasha’s lovely upper lip curled back. “And here we are again. What does SHEILD want?” she demanded.

“Well, they want you dead, but I’m starting to kind of like you,” Clint said, pulling a protein bar out of his quiver and sliding it towards her across the floor. “So here’s the deal. You prove that you’re not some crazy serial killer and I’ll vouch for you.”

“You want names,” Natasha deduced.

“Wait, you mean you weren’t just randomly killing people?” Clint said with a gasp of mock surprise. “Yeah, that’d help.”

“I can’t,” she said simply. “They’d kill me.”

“So you do some community service! Save the world a few times! Worked for me,” Clint added with a chuckle and shrug. “Look, they’re going to reassign me soon and then someone who will honestly try to kill you will take over. And there’s a lot higher chance they’ll be successful if they’re really trying.”

“This is blackmail,” Natasha said matter-of-factly. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

“Yup,” Clint said.

There was a long moment of silence. Natasha’s mouth twisted slightly and she blew a stray strand of hair out of her face. Clint waited, contemplating how much trouble he was going to be in when Coulson found out about this.

“Fine,” the Russian spy said.

“Wait, what?” Clint blinked.

“Fine,” she repeated. “Uncuff me.”

Oh, this was so a trick, Clint reflected. He was going to regret this so much. “Okay,” he said, moving closer and starting to reach for the cuff. There was the quiet sound of a zipper and Clint froze, staring down the partially unzipped Russian jumpsuit.

“See something you like?”

This was textbook, insisted his brain. This was Seduction 101. If he was lucky, he would end up being left trussed up like a Christmas turkey and if he was unlucky he could end up dead. After all, this was her M.O.. He knew that from her file.

Boobs, said his penis.

“Yeeeeeessss,” he breathed. “But I’m going to be good and uncuff you and we’re going to rendez-vous with my team.”

Her legs wrapped around his waist. “Or we could stay here,” she whispered, crimson lips brushing around but not against his mouth.

Oh god, he was going to regret this. “Or we could stay here,” he echoed and pressed his mouth against hers. She tasted like gunpowder and strawberry vodka but sweeter.

She pulled him close, giving him a kiss that had been trained to seduce better and stronger men than he was. God bless the Russians, Clint thought.


End file.
